Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “No,” she whispered, glancing away so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, suspicion growing in his voice. “Have we met?”

  She could hear the fear in his voice, and it killed what remained of the hope she held in her heart. She searched for anything to say, anything at all that might save her further humiliation, but her pride would not let go.

  “Do you…do you know who I am?” she asked quietly, at last able to look up at him. His eyes…Jane was struck breathless at the sight of them. They were dark blue, the color of india ink. Faint bruising marred his eyelids but it in no way detracted from his handsomeness. The way he looked at her, with those beautiful eyes glaring at her, cut her to the quick.

  His gaze narrowed for a brief second as if he did, indeed, begin to recognize her, but he straightened and stepped back. “Should I know you?” He looked her over from the top of her cap to the tips of her worn boots as if she were an insect on a stick that he found rather revolting.

  “From the hospital,” she said, adopting her native cockney accent, while disguising herself from him. Jane shoved her wounded pride aside and instead tilted her chin up a notch and stared him down through the lenses of her spectacles.

  His mouth worked, and Jane saw the horror in his eyes. He was afraid she was his lover. He was horrified by the thought of it, and Jane was just as horrified that she had allowed herself to be such a fool. Men were men. They all wanted beauty. Such shallow, fickle, heartless creatures.

  “Yer ’ere to meet Jane,” she grumbled, and he saw his expression grow hopeful.

  “Yes, have you seen her?”

  “Yes, I expect she’s on her way ’ome by now.”

  “Home?” he thundered, his expression growing dark. “We planned to meet here.”

  “Oh, she had no plans to meet with you, milord,” she countered, growing more venomous by the second. “She paid me a crown to wait ’ere to tell ye she wouldn’t be coming today, or any other day fer that matter.”

  He looked crestfallen, and Jane, for an instant, felt badly, but the stinging of her pride and the burning ache of her heart soon shoved any softening feeling aside.

  “What do you mean she’s not coming?” he growled. “We had an appointment.”

  “She changed ’er mind.”

  He swore, and slapped his gloves against his thigh. “I don’t believe this.”

  Jane wondered what was so incredulous to him, the fact that Jane had not fallen into his grasp, or the fact that Jane, as a poor, working woman would have the audacity to turn down a lord. Either way, it made her rage and seethe inside. She had grossly misjudged him. That had been her own fault. A fault she wouldn’t allow ever again.

  “Would you give her this?” he asked. He reached into his pocket and removed a silver case. He pulled out an ivory card and handed it to her.

  The Earl of Wallingford. Jane nearly choked on her tongue. Wallingford was her Matthew? The Wallingford? The man was the most vile, most reprehensible skirt chaser in the realm. She knew of his infamous reputation, even with her limited association with the ton. Lord, what a fool she had been. His exploits were legendary. His callous attitude toward women shameful. He was a beast, a misogynist, and Jane felt abused and violated that she had allowed herself to be taken in by his silky tongue.

  How had she not recognized him? she wondered. She had met him once, while she had been visiting Anais. Wallingford and Anais had been friends for years. Jane didn’t expect him to recall their introduction, for she was nothing but a servant in his eyes, nothing worth remembering. But why had she not realized who he was? How had she not remembered his rugged handsomeness?

  Because he was beaten. Because he was in the East End, her mind tried to rationalize. Oh, Lord, what the devil had she done?

  “I will give you half a crown,” he muttered, “if you tell me where she lives.”

  Jane glared at him, and turned her back, preparing to leave. He reached for her and held her arm in his grip. “All right, a crown. Tell me where to find Jane.”

  “She doesn’t want to be found by the likes of you.”

  “All right, five pounds. Now give me her direction.”

  She knew her eyes were glittering with rage. “Get yer paws off me, or I’ll scream for the constable.”

  His lips turned mulish. “He’d hardly believe I was ravishing you, now, would he? You’re hardly the ravishing type.”

  Jane gasped at his cruelty. “You’ll never find her,” she hissed. “She’s run off, far away from you.”

  “Nothing evades me when I want it bad enough.” He dropped her arm and stared down at her. “Now then, how much is it going to cost me to get what I want out of you?”

  Jane’s entire being filled with hatred for him. How had she misjudged him? How could this puffed-up, arrogant beast be her sweet Matthew? She looked up at him, stunned, trying to understand how there could be two so very different sides to him.

  “Simple, as well as plain, I see,” he growled. “Here, there’s ten pounds, now tell me where to find Jane. Now.”

  She took the money, dropped it to the ground and stepped onto the bill, grinding her boot on it. “There’s much for purchase on these streets, milord, but you’ll find I’m not one of the items.”

  With a flare of her skirt and head held high, Jane strolled down the street and waved down a hansom cab. As they drove past the spot where she had waited for him, she noticed that Matthew—no, it was Wallingford now—was marching his way into the hospital.

  She was right when she thought her world would look different if she got into that carriage with him. Her world had changed. It had gone from gray to black in the span of a kiss.

  She was ruined now, broken by the Earl of Wallingford.

  The rain was pouring down in a blinding sheet.

  Heedless of the bone-raking chill of the wind and driving rain, Matthew gripped the iron bars of the fence and stared at the empty spot where he’d once held Jane’s hand.

  Stark reality slapped him in the face. He had driven her away from him. What had he done? Had he been too bold in his embrace? Had he frightened her away because he had not been able to control his own lust? Impossible. She needed his touch as much as he had needed hers. He knew that—still knew it. It was something else. He could hardly credit how he should know such a thing. He just did. Damn it, he didn’t know why. And he needed to know. Needed to know why she hadn’t come to him in over a week. He needed to know almost as much as he needed her.

  Every night, every morning, he had come to the hospital, hoping to find her, to glimpse her on her way to or from work. He had seen no one who resembled her. He would know her body, the way it curved beneath her cloak. He would recognize her voice, the way it soothed the storm inside him. But he had seen no one who he thought was Jane. The letters he had sent to the hospital had been returned to him, unopened. He had even gone to the hospital, inquiring after her. The nurse in charge had denied knowing a Nurse Jane.

  She was hiding from him, but why?

  Pushing off from the fence, he blinked away the rainwater that landed on his lashes. Ignoring the forked flash of lightning and the roll of thunder, he took another step back, unable to bring himself to look away from the gates of the hospital.

  Damn her for not returning. And damn him for being such a pathetic fool. What a simpleton he was to come every day, hoping and praying he would find her. Christ, it was utterly pathetic, this slavish need he had in regard to her. How could a woman he knew nothing about become so vital to his happiness? Women had never factored into his happiness before, so why now, did this one?

  The ugly truth stared before him and he forced himself to confront his mistake. He had been gravely wrong to believe that Jane was different from the women in his past.

  Goddamn her, she had made him hope. Made him feel alive. Made him yearn. Well, no more. To hell with her. To hell with himself for believing in a woman’s goodness.

  As he fl
ung open the door to his carriage, his coachman leaned to the side from his perch. “Home, your lordship?”

  “No,” he growled. “To Madame Recamier’s.”

  “The bordello?” his coachman asked with a frown.

  “Do you have a goddamn problem with that, Turner?” he snapped.

  “I didn’t think—”

  “You’re damn right you didn’t think. Henceforth, you will keep your opinions and your thoughts to yourself. I pay you to drive, not talk. If you’re not up to the task, I’ll find myself another coachman who can do the job.”

  The young man’s face turned crimson. “Begging yer pardon, yer lordship.”

  “I should say so. If you want to retain your post, keep in mind the fact that the last bloody thing I want is a lecture from the hired help on my lack of morals. If I want a sermon, I’ll bloody well go to church, or better yet, I’ll pay a call on my father.”

  Slamming the door shut, Matthew stretched out his legs and watched the rivulets of rainwater trickle down the glossed leather of his boots. Christ, he was in a black mood. A rage he had not felt for years was gripping him. The image of Jane standing beside him flashed before him. He thrust it aside, just as he thrust aside the feel of her lips beneath his. A feeling that was strongly reminiscent of guilt washed over him when he thought of the brothel he’d ordered his coachman to drive him to.

  What was he doing going to a brothel? He wasn’t in the mood, nor the right frame of mind to take a woman to bed. However, it was not only his black mood that made him uneasy, it was something far more unsettling than that. It was his conscience that was jabbing at him.

  Fuck her, he spat viscously as he crossed his arms over his chest. He owed Jane nothing. He didn’t even know her last name. He doubted he would even see her again.

  No, he owed Jane nothing, least of all monogamy. She had ruined him. Had destroyed any hope he had left in his life. Damn it, he hated this feeling nonsense. The sooner he returned to his old careless and embittered self the better.

  “Madame Recamier’s,” Turner called as he slowed the carriage to a stop in front of an old Georgian mansion in the heart of Trevor Square.

  Matthew pressed forward and peered at the green door and the triangular stone pediment that made the facade elegant and classical. From the outside, the house was the pinnacle of respectability. On the inside, it was a notorious bawdy house that catered to the whims and fetishes of the ton.

  “When shall I return for you, milord? Or perhaps I should wait here?” his nervous looking coachman asked as Matthew slammed the carriage door shut behind him.

  “I will send word to you, Turner. But I shouldn’t think it will be anytime soon.”

  “Today, milord?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Tomorrow?” Turner’s voice cracked with nervousness.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Two days, milord?” he asked in awe.

  “At the very least,” he grumbled as he straightened his waistcoat and strolled up the steps to the house.

  “Ah, Lord Wallingford,” Madame Recamier said with a smile as she swung the door wide-open and waved him in. “Bonjour, my lord. It has been a long time.”

  “Good day, madam.”

  “You are very early this morning, my lord.”

  “Let us cut to the chase. I am in need of a well-appointed room as I shall be occupying it for some time. I will also require women. Skilled women.”

  “Oh, my girls are the very best, monsieur. Surely you remember that.”

  “That is why you find me here at your doorstep at this ungodly hour. Now, a blonde and a fetching brunette, if you please.”

  “At once, my lord. I shall send Chloe and Phoebe to you. I trained them myself. You will find them very…accommodating. They are both highly skilled in the more exotic arts.”

  “Very good,” he muttered, slapping his gloves against his thigh. “Exactly what I’m looking for.”

  Bloody hell he hoped one of them had green eyes. It would make the fantasy so much more real that way.

  “This way, my lord,” Madame Recamier called as her wide-hooped skirt swished along the marble floor of the foyer.

  For the first time in his life he wondered if he would even be able to complete the task ahead of him. He was absurdly numb. Not even the faintest hum of anticipation throbbed in his veins. His cock, he realized, was humiliatingly limp.

  “Perhaps three women, madam,” he said as he climbed the stairs behind her. “And one with green eyes. Light green,” he clarified. “And a bottle of absinthe,” he demanded. He was going to need to get ripping sotted if he was indulging in this sort of play. He had no desire for his dreams to come out. With the green fairy, he could shove aside his past, could withstand the touch of them, their scent on his body in order to live out this fantasy. With the green fairy, he could fuck these women and pretend they were Jane. And Christ, it was a pathetic notion that he needed to pretend. Fool.

  “My lord.” The madam chuckled. “We are only too pleased to service you. Who could deny you?”

  A woman named Jane, he thought bitterly. There was only one way to drive her out of his blood, and that was with the body of another—or three others—he thought savagely. Hell, he was going to have himself a grandiose orgy and then he would be good and rid of the chit. After this, he would never again close his eyes and see those lovely green eyes flashing at him from beneath black lace.

  He wanted to hate her, but he couldn’t. Maddening as it was, his desire for her was growing, until it was all he could think about, until it was all he could see, taste, feel.

  He didn’t want to feel. Didn’t want to taste. He wanted to fuck. To purge her out of his mind. By the time he was done here, he would have forgotten Jane and the way she had touched him. When he was done, he would be cold and empty once more. Himself, he growled, as he reached for the blonde who had entered the room. Tearing the flimsy nightgown from her body he saw that her nipples were already hard, and he cupped her breast, and bent to take a nipple into his mouth. He did not suckle her as he had Jane, but bit down on the small bud, eliciting a gasp of excitement.

  “What is your name?” he growled.

  “Chloe.” She sighed as he cupped her other breast and rolled the nipple into a hard, little point.

  “No, it is not,” he commanded. “It is Jane.”

  “All right,” she said, “I’m Jane.”

  No, you aren’t, he thought as he pressed her against the wall, but it’s all I’ve got.

  She wrapped her leg around his hip and dipped her hand between her thighs, spreading herself as he watched her fingers between her folds. “What are you going to do to Jane?” she teased as she brought her fingers to his lips.

  “Make her pay.”

  When he found her—Jane—he was going to make her suffer. It was one of the things he was good at, making people hurt. That, and fucking. Pain and screwing. It was all he knew.

  9

  Sunrise. How he loathed the dawn.

  It was just another bloody reminder that another interminably long day loomed ahead of him. Hours and hours of idleness and boredom were his daily penance. How the devil did he continue to exist, enduring the endless monotony? His days had been carried out in the same manner for the past eighteen years. His stint at Madame Recamier’s brothel had been no exception. He had been bored then, too. Just carrying out the act in a physical, nonemotional manner.

  He remembered those days at the brothel. The women who had pleasured him lay in sated sleep around him as he stared up at the ceiling, physically replete, emotionally void. Even two days of debauchery and numerous bottles of absinthe had not made the unsavory feelings of guilt, remorse and unquenchable longing release their hold on him.

  Christ, he had not been able to shake the thoughts of Jane. It was obvious that no amount of sex, no matter how skilled or debauched it might be, was going to be enough to drive away the memories of that afternoon when he had kissed and touched Jane. No brea
sts were as beautiful and full as Jane’s. No skin was as flawlessly smooth and sweet tasting as hers. Even when he had requested that one of the women stroke him to orgasm with her hand, the release had not been the same. He had merely emptied himself in her palm. It had been cold and emotionally vacant. The charged shudder, the shattering experience of burying his face in scented skin as he came, had been missing, and he had felt utterly devoid of any feeling.

  The memories faded and he felt the warmth of the spring sun on his face. He was damn certain that this morning, with its obscenely brilliant sunrise, would not hold anything other than the usual amusements and diversions that occupied his days. Certainly it would not be like the days when he had waited to see Jane. Those days of hope and pleasure were gone.

  Radiant shards of yellow and orange shot through the bed curtains, piercing his closed eyelids. Groaning, Matthew rolled onto his belly, burying his face in the pillow in an attempt to shut out the sunrise and his thoughts of Jane.

  “I don’t give a bloody damn what the devil he is up to. I pay your wages if you will remember, not the wastrel beyond the door.”

  The sound of the bed curtains being thrust aside shot through his brain, setting off a mad tattoo of thundering drums in his head. Christ, he was suffering this morning. He was growing too old for the sort of carousing he had indulged in last evening.

  Reaching for the corner of the blanket, he covered his head from the unsightly sounds and the unwanted light.

  “You will rouse yourself this second, Wallingford! I demand to know what the hell you were thinking when you decided to drag me into another one of your goddamn scandals!”

  “What in Christ’s name is that?” Matthew snapped, his voice muffled beneath the thick woolen covers.

  “Sunlight, milord,” Marlborough, his valet, murmured with characteristic sarcasm.

  “Not that,” Matthew growled. “But that.”

  The irritated, petulant breaths reached his ears once more. Awkward silence ensued and he could only imagine how his poor valet was bearing up beneath the weight of the twelfth Duke of Torrington’s glacial glare.